Mint Juleps and Justice (14 page)

Mike wrapped his arms around her, his body reacting immediately to hers. “I think I just became a big fan of dessert.”

“Me too,” she answered and pulled his hand toward her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

G
oto held his breath as he watched Mike Hartman walk around to the side gate of Brooke’s house. He pulled his hat down and slipped lower in the seat and looked at the plastic digital clock stuck to the dashboard.

He tugged a pencil from over his ear. He’d stolen the Virginia Lottery pencil after he’d picked his Lucky Six numbers, or maybe they were free for the taking anyway. There’d been a whole cup of them. He took down a few notes in the spiral notebook, and started the car to leave. As he approached the stoplight, he fantasized what it would be like if Mike were in that car just ahead of him.

His heart raced every time he got this close. Fleeting thoughts danced in his mind. Jumping out and shooting him right there in the driver’s seat, spraying his guts across that pretty girl’s face, wouldn’t really get Hartman to suffer enough. He chased those thoughts away. They were dangerous thoughts. Once it was done, it was done. There would be no second chances. He had to get it right the first time. He had every intention of making it slow, and painful, and so bad Mike Hartman would sell his soul to the devil to get out of the situation.

Goto decided it was time for a little road trip down memory lane, but he’d need more gas and he was getting short on cash. He glanced at the fancy sports car in front of Hartman’s girlfriend’s house. There was bound to be some cash in the console of that sweet ride.

He turned around and headed back to her neighborhood. He parked about three doors down in front of a house that was for sale. The street was quiet. The only thing he heard was his own breathing as he made his way down the street and up her driveway. Knowing Hartman was in the house with her made the deed all that more exciting.

Goto slid his hand under the door handle and readied himself for a quick escape in case the car had an alarm. One click and the door opened. He scooped a handful of change from the console. Perfect! As he eased back out, he noticed a beach chair in the back of the car. He could use some furniture of his own. He slid the brightly colored chair out, taking it too.

With his spoils, he got back in the car and headed to his favorite landmark. He’d driven by once, but that was weeks ago and things looked different with the new growth of spring. He was beginning to think he had taken a wrong turn, when suddenly he saw the familiar street sign. Now large homes lined the once rural road. He’d been surprised to see the little cottage was still there. He’d figured they’d have torn it down after all this time. Just one more sign that this was meant to be.

A grin spread across his face. It was like coming home. He pulled into the dirt lane to his favorite spot.

There it was.

He sat there breathing heavily and sweating like he’d been running for miles. Then he laughed until he sobbed. As quickly as he lost control, he regained it. Goto slowly exited the car to walk the perimeter of the house. He ran a hand along the siding, feeling the old connection. He’d scarred this place.

Sticks cracked under his feet, and the humidity hung against him heavy like a wet blanket.

The house looked as if it had probably been empty since the last time he was here. Plywood and boards crossed the windows and doors. He took the steps one at a time, pausing on each one and breathing in each memory.

He wrapped his hands around the porch column. Memories flooded back. A small circle of faded yellow plastic hung from the bottom. He smiled. Police tape. Crime scene. His crime. He was the mastermind, the artist behind it all.

He closed his eyes and laid his cheek against the column. His bony white fingers stroked the gritty pole like it was the long hair on a woman. She had been so pretty. He took in a deep breath trying to remember all the details of that day. He could almost remember how she smelled. Sweet. Fruity. Her hair was so soft. He could taste the saltiness of the tears that were on her face.

He moved from the column to the handrail, gripping it with both hands. Squeezing as hard as he could, his arms shook.

It had almost been a perfect day. It had almost been the perfect crime.

The little house where he’d killed Mike’s wife was boarded up now. It had possibilities. On payday he’d had every intention of filling up
his gas tank and making the drive back out here again, but the money from the console of that fancy car had made it all possible tonight. A scouting trip. Location. Location. Location. And timing is everything.

Goto gave himself a nod for good thinking.

The next morning Goto pulled into the parking lot for his meeting with the parole officer with two minutes to spare.

He walked into the building and signed in, giving the receptionist a warm, polite smile. The kind of smile that girls thought meant you were a good Christian boy. It fooled them every time. Women see what they want to believe, but he saw the evil in his soul every time he looked at himself in the mirror.

After the meeting with his parole officer he cruised back to paradise. Frank Goto felt like king for a day sitting in the beach chair in the middle of the little house he’d killed Jackie Hartman in and he reveled in the details of that night all those years ago.

What a kick. Goto loved that all these years and he still held the power. Not many could say that. This plan was going to hit Mike Hartman where it hurt the most.

Goto got up and took a thick marker from the windowsill. He removed the cap, and inhaled the pungent chemical compound. They said that it, like gasoline or glue, would kill your brain cells.

On the opposite wall he’d marked off a calendar and the timeline for his plan. He marked off another day with joy. The countdown. Mike was wearing an expiration date, and he didn’t even know it.

The thick dark ink spread across the old plaster wall, picking up cobwebs and dust from all the years this place had been shut down. He closed his eyes and the picture practically drew itself. For he didn’t know how long, he let the picture take on a life of its own as night turned into morning.

He let out a breath and stepped back to take it all in.

A slash of satisfaction filled him. He had a plan. A good plan.

In celebration, Goto decided to hike to the market. No sense wasting gas, and the walk would do him good. Physical shape was as important as mental sharpness. He walked along the ditch on the side of the narrow road, then along the shoulder to the store. Work wasn’t going to fit into his plan today. He dropped coins into the pay phone outside of the store. No one was in the pizza shop yet, so he left a message that he’d be out sick today. It was easier to lie to a voicemail than to a real person anyway.

Goto treated himself to a forty of malt liquor and bought a bag of ice to keep it cool. In the parking lot he dumped out part of the ice and slipped the forty down in the center. On the walk back he tried to find any weak spots in his plan. There wasn’t much more time.

He spent the better part of the morning prying the boards off the back windows of the little cottage. Light poured in, casting a glow against the mural on the living room walls.

He surveyed his surroundings. This place was home. It was where he belonged. He didn’t need Pizza Boy for a crash spot now that he had this place.

Goto put his celebratory drink in the kitchen sink and tucked newspaper around it to help keep it cool until tonight. Then he grabbed his keys off a hook by the back door and headed for his car.

He dragged a hefty-looking dead branch from across the path that had kept it hidden from the road. He pulled his car out from the cover of the briars and overgrown vegetation, and headed back to town. Pizza Boy would be done with his shift. He should be able to catch him at the apartment and let him know he was moving out.

G
oto sat on the couch writing in his notebook.

Pizza Boy walked in and shut the door behind him. “You okay? You called in sick today.”

“I’m fine. You didn’t blow my cover, did ya?”

“No way,” said Pizza Boy. “I got your back. Blood brothers and all.” Pizza Boy pulled up his sleeve to show his tattoo—the one that Goto had etched into his skin with a mechanical pencil and a mixture of soot and shampoo. It was an exact match in placement and style to the one on Goto.

“You’re cool, dude.” Goody Two-shoes kid would shit a brick when he realized what was on his arm. The image that would tie him to Goto and the dirty deed to top off all his life works—forever.

Pizza Boy beamed.

“Got bad news for you though.” Goto pulled himself up off the couch, and plunged his hands deep into his pockets.

“What’s that?”

“I found another place. I’m moving out. It’s a fixer-upper but it’ll give me more space to work on my art.”

The kid had whined. Goto hated whiners.

G
oto made one last trip to put his bags of belongings in the car, along with a few changes of clothes that were Pizza Boy’s. They were the same size, after all. He took the cooler that they’d used for a coffee table and stuffed more than his share of the food into it. He’d need the cooler for ice, since he didn’t have a refrigerator at the new place.

Part of him would miss Pizza Boy. But the kid had served his purpose. Too bad for him.

Goto pushed the thought from his head. He whistled through his teeth and sang “Jesus Loves the Little Children” the whole drive back, popping the Jesus air freshener to keep it swinging to his beat. That felt good.

He pulled the car off the road nearly a mile before the driveway to the house. The old logging site pallets made it easy to drive into the brush. It was the best spot to tuck away the car. He dragged the birch back across the outlet, covering his tracks in.

He couldn’t take a chance trampling the grass at his house by using the driveway. Someone might notice he’d taken occupancy. He’d only have to keep the secret for a few weeks. When it was all said and done, he’d torch the place. That ought to make headlines.

A place of his own. It was meant to be. It took him two trips to walk all of his new stuff to the house, but he didn’t mind.

Sweat dripped down the side of his face as he hauled the heavy cooler on the last trip to the house for the night.

Suddenly he needed to spread out—no sense living like he was still isolated to a cell. After being in prison he needed to keep moving. The feeling of being in one place for any length of time sent him into a tailspin.

He grabbed the pillow and blanket and set them up in the bedroom, then moved the beach chair next to the window in the living room and set a box next to it like an end table. He put his food in the cupboards and then slid the cooler where a refrigerator once sat.

Hell, this was a lot better than prison. It was perfect, really. Only a few miles or so in either direction and he could get to the guy responsible for putting his ass in jail.

That sweet little yoga girl had been his first ticket to freedom with the place to crash and extra money. Funny how, in a way, she was funding the murder of her very own best friend. Small world. Helluva small world. But then, he didn’t have this place back at the time. He loved this place. It was still the perfect location. Yeah, this was a better plan. Everything happens for a reason.